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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136060">touch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty'>faikitty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shall We Date?: Obey Me!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Gender-Neutral Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Other, Reader-Insert, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:29:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucifer takes a well-deserved nap.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>391</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>touch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lucifer’s wings are very soft.</p><p>This doesn’t surprise you. You suspected they were soft from the moment you saw them, spread wide and glorious behind him, framing him as some sort of avenging god with their blackness as complete as the night. He had seemed all-powerful as he saved you, caught you in his arms after Leviathan attacked you. You had stared up at him, but he had gazed unflinchingly at Leviathan. He didn’t spare you a glance. Even as he held you—<em>protected</em> you—he kept a distance from you. You could look; you could not <em>touch</em>. He was a statue in a museum, marble and gold. He was a painting on a cathedral’s ceiling, a depiction of God, or perhaps of his own fall from grace. Getting too near to the morning star made you feel as Icarus, too near to his own sun. To touch Lucifer—to brush against his wings—would be to melt your own.</p><p>But things changed. Your orbits grew closer, drawn together by the force of the universe, until you were a planet at its perihelion. And you did not melt. When Lucifer touched <em>you</em> finally—held you in his arms so tightly you could barely breathe, his embrace born of sheer relief at the sight of you alive once more—it was the final spanning of the distance between you. A moment’s touch. Nothing more. But with it came permission to do the same. And so you did; you do.</p><p>You run your hands over his horns, so black it is as if they suck in all light. You wonder, sometimes, if his horns, twisted and curved with their edges biting sharp, were made of what remained of his halo when he fell. They are chipped in spots, battle scarred, so many tiny stories he has yet to tell you. It ruins his air of perfection; you love him all the more for it. He is always careful with his horns when he’s around you, keeping them hidden as much as possible for fear of scratching you. He is less careful with his wings; many a morning finds you snuggled up against him in bed, curled into his side, his wings surrounding you. He <em>likes</em> to have his wings out around you; he admits as much to you, only once. He tells you that when you are resting in his arms, buried beneath the blanket of his wings, he feels like you’re <em>safe</em>. He feels like he can protect you.</p><p>You like when Lucifer’s wings are out too. Even when you are simply resting together on a lazy Sunday afternoon (a break you had to <em>force</em> him to take when the circles beneath his eyes grew too dark for you to bear), you <em>do</em> feel safe. You always do with him. He rests a hand on your stomach, his head on your chest, a wing thrown haphazardly over you. He’s tense, even now; you know he’s positively brimming with untapped energy, anxious to get back to work, even as exhaustion weights him more heavily than usual against you. Just another law of the universe: a Lucifer in motion tends to stay in motion until his human forces him to stop.</p><p>You stroke your hands absentmindedly through the wing that covers you, feeling it shift slightly as you do. The ash black feathers flutter in the soft glow of the candles in his room, shiny, almost luminescent. You run a finger down one of the longer ones; its bristled edge tickles your skin. But the small feathers at the top of his wing are your favorite. You return your hand to them and feel their downy softness kiss your palm. You can’t resist spreading your fingers through them, brushing against the solid form of the joint that lies beneath. Lucifer gives a small shiver at the motion, his wing trembling faintly before relaxing into your touch. You pause. “Too much?”</p><p>“No,” Lucifer murmurs, the sound little more than a breath. Already, he seems far calmer than he was before you coerced him into resting with you. You feel his lashes flutter against your skin as his eyes close. “It feels good.”</p><p>You stifle a laugh at his unexpected honesty. If he thinks you’re making fun of him, he’ll move, and you don’t want that. So you return to stroking his wing, your touch light, befitting of the deceptively delicate bones beneath the feathers. Lucifer sighs, a low, sleepy noise of contentment that rumbles through his chest and into your own. He is more relaxed than you have seen him in a very long time, and you wonder: is your presence, your <em>touch</em>, truly enough to bring him such peace?</p><p>It is. Soon the breath that rustles over your skin grows longer, deeper. When you glance down, you see that he’s fallen asleep. His head rests beneath your collarbone, heavy over your heart. Did the sound of your steady heartbeat coax him into slumber? Or was it the gentle brushing of your fingers through his feathers?</p><p>No matter. What <em>is</em> important is that Lucifer is asleep, a rare feat for him. You are always surprised by how much <em>younger</em> he looks on the occasions you catch him dozing. In blissful, dreamless sleep, you can truly see how much he has weighing on him when he is awake: the health and safety of his brothers, the expectations of perfection placed upon him as Diavolo’s right-hand man. He would never admit how difficult it all is for him, how overwhelming, but he doesn’t have to. His body speaks for itself. During the day, all of the pressure he is under hardens him, heats him into a diamond, sharp and brilliant. But in sleep—in sleep he is softer. He lacks the edge that is ever-present when he is awake.</p><p>This moment won’t last, sadly. You know it won’t. Any second the peace will be broken by one of his brothers crashing into the room with yet another emergency for him to handle. And he <em>will</em> handle it. He will leave the comfort of your arms and deal with whatever disaster he has to. He always has. He always will. But he will always come back to you too. He will lie with you once more, wrap his wings around you, and keep you safe. He is a vengeful god—he is <em>your</em> vengeful god. And this softness—of his wings, his voice, the small gestures of affection—is yours alone.</p><p> </p>
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